Cold
by sneetchstar
Summary: Abbie deals with an unexpected side-effect from her time in the Underworld. With Crane's help. One-shot.


Hell is not hot.

Contrary to popular belief, the Underworld is not a place of fiery torment with flowing lava, walls made of brimstone, and little demons with pitchforks repeatedly poking you in the ass.

Hell is cold.

Hell is desolate.

Hell is a bleak landscape of loneliness. The type of loneliness that would prompt even the most reclusive of introverts to crave a little companionship.

It doesn't _feel_ cold the way a winter in upstate New York feels cold. Its inhabitants – of which there are multitudes, billions of souls existing together but never meeting – do not see their breath, do not get frostbite, and do not lose sensation in their toes.

It is a Coldness that seeps into your very being, knitting into your bones until the coldness becomes a very part of you. It inhabits you like a parasite, taking over until the concept of "warm" is completely foreign.

Hell is Cold.

When Abbie Mills returns to the Earthly Realm, the Coldness has managed to take a partial hold on her.

She finds she simply cannot get warm. Even a hearty northern girl like Abbie, born and raised in Sleepy Hollow, New York, no stranger to winters featuring several feet of snow and sub-zero wind chills, cannot shake the Cold from her body.

The first thing she did once she was safely ensconced in her house was take a hot bath. The water was so hot it should have nearly scalded her, yet she only felt mild relief from the Cold.

Ice cream, a past favorite, was spurned. Iced drinks were right out. She would even zap an apple in the microwave for a bit if it was too cold.

She almost exclusively wore sweaters. Sweaters, long underwear, thick woolen socks, gloves, and scarves. Always scarves, wrapped about her neck like sentries against the chills.

Abbie Mills was getting very tired of being Cold. As winter turned to spring, people around her were shedding their thicker garments in favor of light jackets while Abbie continued to bundle up.

She hasn't yet returned to the FBI. Reynolds told her to "take some time" and informed her that her "position is waiting" if she decides to come back.

She hasn't yet decided what to do about her career. She and Crane have been spending most of their time fighting demons and trying to find out how to banish the Cold from Abbie's system that she very much doubts that she will be able to return. Even if she wanted to, which she is not certain she does.

Jenny found some artifacts and spells to try and help. Nothing. Joe constantly monitored her health, checking her temperature and vital signs. All normal. Crane threw himself into books and research. He found only a few references to the Cold, but no solutions.

Until one night, during their periodic Witness Movie Night, Abbie, bundled in her flannel pajamas under an electric blanket in late April, unthinkingly stuck her toes underneath Crane's thigh on the opposite side of the couch as she sought to warm them.

Normally Crane would sit in the recliner, allowing her to have the entire couch on which to stretch out, but tonight, for whatever reason, he joined her on the sofa.

He didn't really even notice her small, questing toes. They are so accustomed to sharing close quarters that it hardly even registered that she was touching him.

Then she shoves them further under, and he looks over at her.

"Sorry," she says, but doesn't move her feet.

"It's quite all right," he replies. "I am more than happy to help in any way I can to alleviate your chi—"

"Crane," she cuts him off, eyes widening.

"Lieutenant?"

"My feet… they're _warm._ " She wiggles her toes under his leg, and he blinks, the feeling a little nicer than he expected.

"Are they?" he asks, his brows furrowing in thought.

"They haven't been warm in months," she quietly says. She scoots down, knees bending as she moves closer. He lifts his arm with a startled exclamation as her right shin presses up against his side. "Oh…" She shuffles closer still, flipping around and throwing herself against him.

"Lieutenant!" Crane exclaims, but any further protest dies on his shocked lips as she climbs onto his lap and curls against him, dragging the electric blanket with her. Helpless, his arms move around to hold her. It feels too perfect, and he briefly closes his eyes.

"Oh yeah," Abbie sighs, snuggling deeper into his chest. "You are _so_ warm."

"A-am I?" he sputters, still reeling from the very new sensation of having a lapful of Miss Mills. It's a rather… pleasant sensation, he must admit. "I never much thought of myself as a very warm-bodied person. I'm much too thin, you see. Benjamin Franklin, on the other hand," he starts in, huffing a short laugh as he lets his mouth take over, "he would often joke that his body generated enough warmth to heat his entire estate during the winter months, if he could only find a way to harness it."

"Must be why he went around naked half the time," she mutters, smiling, her face nestling into the open vee of his shirt to press against his chest.

"Oh dear, is that how you met him in 1781?" Crane asks, distracted enough by the mental image of naked Franklin greeting Abbie to not pay too much heed to her nuzzling.

Laughing, she lifts her head. "No. Though I got the distinct impression that he would have been quite happy to wind up that way, under different circumstances."

"What?"

"Your boy Franklin was a flirt," she matter-of-factly states, tucking her head back down. "Lie down," she adds, one hand pushing at his shoulder.

He clears his throat. "Yes, well, Franklin's, um, _appetite_ was common knowledge amongst the—what did you just say?"

She tugs his shoulder. "Lie down. I need more," she repeats. When he stares, unmoving, she gently says, "Ichabod. You are the only thing that has managed to bring any warmth into my body. You can't know what that feels like. I'm afraid…" she rapidly blinks a few times, "I'm afraid that it's not going to last, so I want to soak is as much as I can now, before it goes away."

The despair in her words jolts him into action, and in seconds he is reclined along the length of the couch and welcoming her into his embrace.

Abbie tucks herself next to him and pulls the blanket over them. She is facing him, no longer watching the already-forgotten movie.

Crane knows he is likely going to roast beneath the heated blanket, but he doesn't care. He's hoping they've finally found the thing to break through the Cold in his partner's body. _I will hold her all night if it will help. I will hold her all night under any circumstances._ The second thought comes unbidden on the tail of the first; one of many thoughts he has been denying for too long.

She hums contentedly, pressing her entire body against his. "Oh, this is so great," she says.

 _Great._ Not exactly the word Crane was thinking. "Distracting" might be a more accurate assessment. He tries to watch the movie to keep his thoughts from wandering to improper things. It is an action film, so it is diverting enough even though he has completely lost track of the plot.

Abbie goes quiet, simply soaking in his warmth. She closes her eyes, and can actually _feel_ the Cold leaving her. It goes slowly, but definitely, starting with her feet and working its way up. She is as close as she can get, but still wants to get closer. _We should get naked._

 _What?_

Her eyes fly open and she jolts enough to draw Crane's attention.

"Miss Mills, is everything all right?" he asks, looking down at her.

His voice is velvety soft and his body is remarkably warm and his hands are reassuringly solid. "Yeah," she croaks. "I think it's working," she adds. "Like, really working."

"Excellent," he replies, unconsciously giving her a squeeze as he ponders her. His Lieutenant is a study in opposites: so small, but incredibly large in spirit. So strong, but heartbreakingly vulnerable. So firm, but deliciously soft and pliant in his arms.

"Are you roasting?" she asks after a time. "You can switch the blanket off. Don't move it, but turn the heat off."

"Are you certain?" he asks. "For I am willing to continue being a human Bedfordshire Clanger with you if you still require the electric heat."

Abbie laughs, remembering the burned pastry all those months ago. It's a fairly apt description of them, as the pie contained savory filling at one end and sweet at the other. "It's fine, turn it off," she says. When he tucks his arm back inside, she asks, "Which end am I?"

Before he can stop to think about his actions, he presses his lips to the top of her head in a brief kiss. "The sweet, of course," he replies.

Her impulse is to counter with a smart remark about having a "sweet end", but she suppresses it, not wishing to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is. She has noticed him trying not to fidget. Keeping his eyes on the television. The kiss on the top of her head was very unexpected, because he has seemed rather uneasy since she pressed herself against him. "I hope this isn't too uncomfortable for you," she says. "I know this isn't really 'proper' behavior, but—"

"Abbie," he interjects, looking down at her. When she meets his gaze he says, "I said earlier that I am more than happy to assist you in any way. I have not changed my mind and will never do so."

"Oh," she answers. "Thank you."

"I can say with all honesty that it is my pleasure."

She doesn't know what to say to his quietly-spoken words, so she says nothing, choosing to tuck her head back under his chin and return to absorbing his warmth.

Finally secure, Warm gradually replacing Cold, she drifts off to sleep.

Some time later, she wakes up. It's gone completely dark, and she realizes she's in her bed. _He must have carried me._

She closes her eyes again, intending to return to sleep, when she notices something. She nearly sits bolt upright with the realization.

She's warm. Not hot, but pleasantly, cozily warm.

"Lieutenant?" Crane's voice is thick and slurred as he stirs. His hand reaches out, patting the bed as he gropes for her.

 _He stayed._ Abbie can't believe it. _He carried me to bed, and then climbed in and_ stayed _with me._ "It's okay. I'm okay, Crane," she says, taking his hand.

He pulls her hand and she willingly moves into his arms, tucking her small body into his gangly embrace.

As they drift back off to sleep, Crane mumbles something.

Abbie tells herself it's not what she thinks she heard, but as sleep claims her, she knows it is, because the Cold finally leaves for good.

 **A/N: Ha, turns out I wasn't too far off in my description of Abbie's locale...**


End file.
